(A writing from June 2021…)
I made a second cup of coffee immediately after the first was empty.
As a rule, I stagger the intake: one when I wake up and one midmorning after I’ve had something to eat. I wake up with the sun; this morning that meant 5:37, even though I fidgeted to sleep well past midnight. With my first cup of coffee, I read a couple chapters from Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, and with her encouragement, I broke out the computer to write. It felt like I deserved that second cup of coffee.
When I lived with four other writers for two weeks during a writers’ conference in Saratoga Springs, NY, we all came and went as we pleased. We rarely gathered in the common space of the kitchen or living room, for each of our bedrooms had a desk and a door. Two or three of us would sail across one another’s horizons on occasion and go to lunch or dinner. I remember one morning there being some semblance of a plan between two of us, and we invited a third to join us. “Thank you, but no. I’m fully caffeinated and going to go write.” Dawn was whizzing out the door as she spoke. What lovely freedom Dawn had in those words. Today, nearly three years later, despite a long day ahead, I poured myself a second cup of coffee before 6:30 a.m. and silently declare that I am going to write.
Anne Lammot suggests that if you have writer’s block, just try to get 300 words down about anything. Working off of her advice, I can stop now having reached 342. However, I’ve worked through my “writer’s block” already by committing to the keyboard, finding the cord to my uncharged computer, and brewing the second cup. My block is finding the wherewithal to say, “I’m going to write.” Once committed, I can generally put something down. And this morning, the second cup of joe is like a power boost.
I opened the screen to many tabs skipping across the top of the screen. Boldly, with one click on that little “X” in the top righthand corner, I come back to my muse screen: a cup of mocha latte artistry set against a notebook cover that says “Start Now” and a pen on either side of the notebook. I don’t often see this sight, so many days I dive into yesterday’s tabs and start plowing through instead of smoothly moving forward from a blank page. There was great silly glee in clicking that “X” without looking at the shells of yesterday. If they were important, they’ll knock on the door later today, right?
***
I rarely write without the pressure of pushing send in two hours. I force my writing into that time much like an espresso machine forces hot water through the tightly packed mass. That force is the shove I need in getting words flowing out of my fingers. Without that tiny goal, perhaps only a weak, tasteless cup of joe would get served up? Answer unclear.
As of yesterday, both of my sons are done with school, so there will be no marching of solemn teens through the kitchen and out the door right around 7:15 each weekday morning. This points to transition—room for something new. Would it be conceivable to write 300 words each morning? If this act of regular writing is instituted, I’m confident that many more words would arrive—marking 590 now. I’ve never written with a goal of words. Rather once I make the commitment to write, I explore ideas. Following threads of thought until I’ve manipulated the Thing and peeked into all of its crevices.
The Thing must be ready for such an intense perusal. For instance, if I’m feeling a bit too emotionally close to Thing 1, it’s not going to get pulled from the back burner. However, Thing 2 might be ready to go: perhaps Thing 2 happened twelve months or twelve years ago and, like a strong wine or cheese, it’s ready. Thing 2s are rare. From my book, the essay “At the Edge of a Memory” about Great Grandma was one of those. For years, I tried to put my finger on the missing memory until finally it dawned on me that it wasn’t going to appear. Ever. Only then could I concede and write about the thing I didn’t know.
On occasion, Thing 3 struts forth with gusto, and upon first consideration, it appears ready—so full of itself it’s about to burst. Yet when I take a brief inventory of its parts before I project it out, there is something askew. It’s not as fierce and consuming as a Thing 2. It’s a bit like a beautifully intricate lattice-work pie that is missing one strip of crust. Once I find that bit of crust, it will be complete.
My local coffee shop is under new ownership. This has planted true bittersweet in my soul. Gone is the art served over a decade under the guise of mocha lattes. Gone are red and green sprinkles in early October. This coffee art a couple times a week was like a sprinkling of fairy dust. The happiest of muse juice made by Gia. (Here is a gallery of Gia’s Muse Juice creations.) The new owners are young, and they are bringing huge vibrancy to the downtown as they partner with other businesses and change up their menu, but they are not artists. While I tried to be a dedicated customer for a few weeks, I’ve moved farther down the road to a shop where the dark cocoa powder swirled into the espresso is powerful, not syrupy sweet. Neither place serves up art, but the strength of the cocoa feels new and heightens the sense of taste where previously the sense of sight took precedence.
***
Addendum, written July 30, 2021:
The historical fiction writer, Lisa See, writes 1,000 words every day. Before this short addition, I was at 973. Rather than set a goal of writing so many words a day from now to infinity, whether 300 or 1,000 words, perhaps I could set a short challenge period to consistently write day after day? Perhaps I take the month of August and write for 31 days straight?
And then, even the crickets stop chirping.